The Accidental Snuggler
by crazywriter10
Summary: Or Five Times Clint Accidentally Snuggled with a Teammate and One Time it Wasn't So Accidental. With some Barton/Coulson slash


****This is my first Avengers fic. I have never read the comics, but I seem to be fangirling hardcore over a certain archer. I'm okay with that. So, lemme know if I got anything horribly out of character or if there's glaring errors here, as it hasn't been seen by a beta. Enjoy.

* * *

**1. Natasha**

He hated this stage, where he was so tired he was actually wired, and there wasn't much to do before the rest of the adrenaline and caffeine wore out of his system for the inevitable crash. Clint had only recently gotten back from a SHIELD assignment that had him quite literally hanging out in a tree for over forty-eight hours, followed by another twelve of following whoever the hell it was he was supposed to follow and now he was back at the mansion, waiting for the crash to come.

But it wouldn't. Of course it wouldn't – it was three in the middle of the afternoon. Not only was his body clock so screwed it wasn't sure which way was up, but it wasn't even dark. Clint didn't really want to think how long it would be for him to settle back into a normal sleeping pattern.

Which was how he wound up sitting on the couch in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair still damp from what was probably his third shower – scalding, of course, to try and get him to relax enough – watching a movie and hoping his stubborn eyelids would stay closed.

"Clint?"

He looked backward over his shoulder, blinking tiredly at Natasha. He hadn't heard her coming, which wasn't unusual, and he was quite thankful she hadn't taken the opportunity to scare him up into the next floor.

"Can't sleep," he said, turning his attention back to the movie.

She took a seat on the other end of the couch and looked at the screen. "Too wired to be tired?"

"Yeah." He leaned his head back. His eyes were burning by this point, probably more red than white. Why, why couldn't his system just say fuck it and knock him the hell out? Clint's attention subconsciously wavered between the events happening on screen and keeping track of Natasha's movements to his right. He could hear her when she shifted minutely, and he could, if he listened hard enough, hear her soft breathing. That was ultimately his downfall.

Somewhere in the back of his overtired mind, he figured it was a good idea to actually be lying down. He knew Natasha didn't like people in her space uninvited, which is why he wedged himself on his side in the remaining space, well away from her, curled in as tiny a ball as possible.

Natasha heard the change in his breathing somewhere toward the middle of the movie, and when she looked over, she had to smile. Considering the film was actually mildly entertaining, she was content to sit there. She wasn't aware, however, that Clint seemed to have an unconscious homing beacon for the nearest warm body, and slowly, inched his way out of his own little space bubble to pillow his head in the crease of her thigh and hip, wrapping his left arm around her leg nearer her knee.

If she didn't figure it would wake him up and put him right back in the same position he had been earlier, she would have shoved him back into his own space. But he seemed content – and he was sleeping – and she didn't have the heart to move him because, quite frankly, he looked adorable.

This was how they were when Tony found them roughly half an hour later.

"Hey," he said, rounding the edge of the couch and stopping completely. "What – "

Natasha gave him a look that quite plainly said _wake him and die_. Clint shifted with a murmur, drawing his bottom leg up more toward his chest and curling his bare toes. She rubbed her thumb gently over his cheekbone and he settled more heavily against her, all while continuing to glare at Tony until he retreated.

He wasn't gone for long, and when he came back he had a blanket which he draped carefully from Barton's feet to mid-chest. Tony patted Natasha's shoulder on his way back out of the room, leaving the two of them.

Oblivious, Clint slept on.

* * *

**2. Steve**

"Hawkeye?"

Somebody slapped at his face.

"Clint? _Clint!_"

Barton jerked awake between one heartbeat and the next, hand coming up to stop whatever was batting at his face. The wandering hand was grabbed by a strong grip, and Clint had to blink several times before the blue face above him came relatively into focus. A few more times and he could actually see it was Steve staring down at him, clearly concerned from behind his cowl.

"You with me now?" Steve asked, one hand resting on Clint's neck. Clint gave a shadow of a nod and started to shift to get up. "Whoa, now, don't move, your knee - "

His entire right side erupted in agony and he jerked, biting back a scream. His green eyes settled on Steve's blue ones as he breathed through the pain. Steve had both hands framing Clint's face to keep his head still.

"Don't move, but I need you to tell me what hurts."

Clint closed his eyes. His chest hurt, indicating he probably had some cracked or broken ribs, especially on the right side; his hip was uncomfortable, and considering there was this cold, clammy feeling all around him, he figured they were underground. Which meant he'd landed hard and awkwardly enough to do some damage. The worst, though, was his right knee.

"Clint? Open your eyes."

He obliged, staring up at Steve. "Whole right side." Was that rusty croak coming from him? "Knee hurts."

"Yeah, you caught something on the way down, I think. Just stay still and I'm going to feel your ribs, okay?" He gave Clint's neck a soft pat and then disappeared from Clint's field of vision. It allowed him to see for the first time the ceiling, confirming his theory they were underground. How they had gotten underground was a mystery to him, but he figured that had something to do with his injuries.

A gentle prod on his ribcage had him jerking away from the questioning fingers, though Steve was quick to get another hand on the other side of him, boxing him in.

"Easy, Clint." Steve's face wandered back into his eye line. "Good news is that they're just cracked, not broken."

"'Bout you?" Clint asked, feeling rather confused.

"I'm fine. I'm not the one who went bouncing off the walls on the way down."

_That _would explain why he hurt so damn badly. But not why he was cold. He completely missed it when Steve said something, but the next thing he knew he was being more or less hauled upright and dragged back. Once he got over his initial shock at the change of position, he dug his left foot in, trying to help while trying not to scream as he seemed to go over every rock from wherever they had been to wherever Steve was dragging him.

The world stopped spinning when Steve leaned him up against the rough, cold wall and Clint shivered, breathing harshly though his mouth and trying to convince his stomach it was a good idea to stay put. Steve had gone away and come back with his bow and quiver and was, apparently, trying to decide which would be the better splint. It took a bit of strength, but Steve managed to snap the heads off two of Clint's arrows and get the string off his bow while he sat there, rather dazed and beginning to shiver in earnest.

"This is going to hurt," Steve warned him, gently taking Clint's right ankle and beginning to straight his slightly bent knee.

Hurt was an understatement, and by the time Clint had surfaced back to consciousness, his knee was splinted – with two arrows and his bowstring in two pieces – and Steve was sitting on his left, back against the wall. They sat there for Clint didn't know how long before his need for warmth got the better of him, and he started slowly closing the gap.

Steve had only heard rumors of Clint cuddling – Tony's words, not his – with Natasha, but to his credit, Clint had just gotten back from the a very strenuous lookout mission and probably hadn't been in his right mind, but there was no way he could deny what was going on to his right. Or the fact that Clint was getting closer to him. Or the way the smaller man wound up pressed against his side, shivering. He wrapped his arm around Clint's shoulders, which seemed to be all the permission the man needed, as before either of them could really figure it out, Clint was suckered as close to Steve's side as he could get, bad leg thrown over both of Steve's and apparently passed out cold.

This was how Tony and the team of SHIELD agents with him found them about an hour later.

"Not a word, Tony," Steve growled, both arms wrapped around Barton's smaller frame because he hadn't quite stopped shaking yet. Tony didn't say anything, but Steve knew he was chuckling underneath the helmet.

Clint was once oblivious to the entire exchange.

* * *

**3. Bruce**

For all his science smarts, Bruce wasn't a mechanic. Neither was Clint, and he made had no qualms about repeating it loudly, multiple times, for anyone to hear. So when the car broke down on the way back from the conference Bruce had willingly attended – and Fury had sent a still-not-cleared-for-field-work Clint for company – they figured they were kind of screwed. Out in the middle of nowhere with no cell service in the early evening, with little to no choice but to walk to the nearest town in hopes they had, at the very least, a phone. And maybe a motel, because, truthfully, after listening to a bunch of science jargon for three days straight, Clint was in the mood to watch some mind-numbing TV and then pass out on something that resembled a bed.

The nearest town was five miles.

Not a problem, normally. Hell, Clint would have gladly run the five miles if it meant getting them out of there. But there was the small snag of his right knee, the one currently sporting a monstrosity of a brace. He'd been allowed to go with Banner because Fury had figured Bruce would make him take it easy, and there wouldn't be much physical exertion besides walking around the hotel where the conference was.

If Nick Fury had predicted this current circumstance, there was no way in hell he'd ever let Clint out of the mansion until he was fully healed and back on active status.

"You want to take a break, Clint?" Bruce asked about a mile in. There was still enough light to clearly see Clint's face – shining with sweat , despite having the lighter of the two backpacks – and the painful crease in his forehead that clearly stated his leg was getting the better of him.

"Nope." Short, clipped, and to the point. All he wanted at this point was some food and a bed. And for Bruce to stop looking at him like he was going to collapse on the side of the backwoods country road they'd been driving on.

Bruce held his arms up in a _easy_ gesture, glad he'd initially taken the outside, by the oncoming cars rather than the inside. If Clint went down, he'd lean right, and instead of winding up in traffic – if any happened by, but knowing their luck, it would – he'd go into Bruce, instead, who would do a better job of keeping him upright.

To say Barton's mood was foul was an understatement. Two miles into their trek they found a tiny, appropriately shitty-looking motel. Clint was limping noticeably, having shrugged off Banner's attempts at getting him to take a break or to lean on him, and he honed in on the neon office sign like the beacon in the dark it was. Once inside he pressed the bell with more force than necessary.

Bruce had had the pleasure of meeting some rather interesting people over the course of his lifetime – including ones with very ulterior motives – but the man who answered the bell was one of the most skeevy-looking people he'd ever laid eyes on, supervillains included. Clint seemed nonplussed, and Bruce figured it was from his circus days.

"Yeah?"

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Room?"

The heavy-set man brought out a faded binder and opened it. "Room 107. One double bed."

Bruce glanced between the man behind the counter and Clint, very glad they'd left Hawkeye's arrows and bow in the trunk of the car.

"One bed?"

The man looked between them. "Don't look like either of you mind sharin' a bed. You want it or not?"

Realizing it was this or walking another three miles – and Clint's knee was beginning to scream at him – there really wasn't a choice. Besides, they were grown men who had seen each other in more awkward situations than this, considering Bruce was a doctor and had seen Clint bareass naked at one point or another for medical purposes, so Clint took the proffered key with a snarl and started limping toward the door while Bruce dug for a credit card to use.

The room was tiny, the double bed taking up most of it. There wasn't even a TV. The bathroom had a tub, sink, and toilet crammed uncomfortably close to one another, and none of it mattered to Clint once he got inside and had the chance to sit for the first time in what felt like ages.

"Barton?"

Clint cracked an eye he wasn't aware he'd closed and eyed Bruce who stood next to the side of the bed, portable med kit in hand. "Yeah?"

"I'm taking a look at that knee." There was that Hulk-like edge in Bruce's voice that told Clint it would be useless to argue. "Which means the pants need to come off."

Roughly an hour later after his knee had been well and truly poked and prodded by Bruce, who had then shoved painkillers down his throat, Clint was curled up on one side of the bed with Bruce climbing in the other side after snapping off the lights. They called SHIELD, who'd told them to sit tight and wait for someone to come get them. The weekend at the conference had been long, the walk from the car to the shitty little motel had been longer, and the only thing either of them wanted to do was sleep.

Despite the rumor he'd heard that Clint was a snuggler, Barton seemed to be content to stay on his own side of the bed. Bruce didn't give it much thought and dropped off into sleep not soon after he'd gotten comfortable.

He wasn't sure what had woken him at first, then he realized it was the heat of having another body pressed against his. Which was funny, because Bruce didn't generally sleep with another person. It was then he remembered the past weekend, the car breaking down, him and Clint…

Clint.

Bruce opened his eyes, allowing them to adjust to the darkness enough to see what he could already feel. Clint had attached himself to Banner's chest, head tucked in the juncture of where neck met shoulder, arm thrown around Bruce's middle, a handful of shirt at the small of his back tangled in Clint's hand. Clint's other arm was between them actually up under Bruce's shirt against his belly and his bad leg was thrown over Bruce's top hip, knee slightly bent.

Huh. Well that confirmed _that_ theory.

There was a light knock on the door. Clint murmured something unintelligible and pressed closer, content to sleep on while whoever it was – Steve, in actuality, with the spare key from the man in the office, probably – poked his head around the door with a soft, "Bruce? Clint?"

"Steve," Bruce whispered back. "You're going to have to get the light. Low, though, otherwise you'll wake him up."

Steve secured the door behind him and shuffled through the darkened room to the beside lamp and switched it on low. Barton jerked his head away from the light, burying his face completely in Bruce's neck with another murmur and then went still again. He put his hands on his hips and met Bruce's eyes in a very _I told you so_ way.

Bruce sighed. "You get his brace from the chair, I'll wake him up."

Rogers stifled a smile.

* * *

**4. Tony**

It was too quiet.

That was the first thing that alerted Natasha that something was mildly wrong. The mansion was never quiet when Tony and Clint were home. If anything there was more chaos then than when they were on missions with the distinct ability to blow things up.

But nothing had blown up. It was eerily silent and still.

She knew she could just as easily ask Jarvis where they were, but that would take the fun out of finding them – and busting them – with whatever they were doing because, quite frankly, they were only this quiet when they were up to something serious.

And with Steve out on a mission, it was probably something they weren't supposed to be doing.

Natasha started with Tony's garage, and finding it empty, started moving through the upper floors. It was the TV that caught her eye – on but with the volume almost muted. She moved quietly through the room to come around the edge of the couch.

They were _adorable_.

But how they'd come to be in that position was a bit of a mystery, though it was still downright adorable. Tony lay on his back, one arm hanging over the edge of the couch and the other wrapped around Clint's back. Most of Clint's lower body was on the cushions under him, both arms wrapped around Tony's slim chest with his cheek smooshed against Tony's barely seen arc reactor through the thin tee Stark wore. The two were so tangled it was difficult to tell who's leg was who's, and she finally figured out that Tony had one leg pressed between Clint's left hip and the couch and the other between Barton's own legs, though Clint's right leg was hanging off the cushion.

She took out her phone, switched it to silent, and snapped a couple of pictures.

Tony's head shifted and he blinked open his eyes, staring up at her in a slightly confused manner. He moved minutely and Clint made a small noise in the back of his throat, trying to burrow his head into Tony's chest.

"He still out?" Tony whispered, carefully to keep his voice low.

"Yeah, he's out." She pushed some of Clint's bangs back out of his face, noting he was a little warm. "He feels warm."

"He's comin' down with somethin'," Tony said, using the hand that was around Clint's back to rub gently through the long-sleeve tee Barton wore. He closed his eyes, opening them when Natasha spread a blanket – the same blanket that had been perched over on the bookshelf for this very reason – over the pair of them.

"Go back to sleep, Tony."

He looked at her oddly and then did as requested. Not that it was much of a hardship. Maybe one day he'd tell her how he and Clint wound up in this position.

* * *

**5. Thor**

Sometimes he hated being the smallest. Sure Natasha weighed less than he did, but thanks to the shoes she was at least taller than him. Steve was ridiculously tall and Tony wore a suit with jet boots on the bottom and had height on even Steve. The only person who towered over everybody was the Hulk. Hell, even Bruce was taller than Clint when he wasn't big, mean, and green, and while that didn't normally bother Barton, today it just downright sucked.

Not to mention physics was a downright bitch.

They were on the Brooklyn side of the East River – not too far from the Bridge, actually – when Hulk came through the air smacking into Tony, who went backward before he could get his bearings, and who then caught Clint at just the right angle to not only dislocate his right shoulder but also pitch him a good two hundred yards out into the East River in the middle of March.

Clint hit the water hard, barely managing to hang onto his bow with fingers that didn't seem responsive, unsure for a good few seconds which way was up. The only thing he did know, though, was that it was fucking freezing, and he started hacking water as soon as his head broke the surface, shivering. He looped the bow around him – it took more effort than it should – and started swimming as best he could toward shore. It was awkward and slow-going without the use of both arms, and the cold was draining the energy out of him at an alarming rate.

"Clint Barton!"

He'd recognize that voice anywhere. Thor. Clint was pretty sure his lips were blue and it took more effort to raise his head to locate Thor than it should have. He was shivering non-stop at this point, and not entirely coherent when Thor, having found a ladder down toward the water, leaned over and grabbed him by the arm – his bad arm until Clint screamed something wholly unintelligible at him and then he changed his grip to his uniform at the back of his neck – and literally tossed him back to dry land like he was the catch of the day.

Clint skidded on his front a few feet, utterly thankful he hadn't landed on his shoulder – either one – and lay there in a shivering heap trying to catch his breath. His shoulder was on fire and he was pretty damn sure he was hypothermic.

"Humans are not supposed to be that color," Thor rumbled, taking off his cape. Clint had totally missed when Thor had come back over to him. He was having enough of a time holding onto consciousness. Though maybe that was a good thing, as Thor seemed to remember enough of his SHIELD training manuals about hypothermia – how humans weren't supposed to turn blue – and started to strip Clint of his bow, arrows, and clothes. That worked until he hit the dislocated shoulder and Clint passed out cold on him.

Thor wrapped the unconscious, blue-tinted Hawkeye – who had stopped shivering – in his cape and took off toward home.

* * *

Clint was freezing when he surfaced, gasping for breath like he was still in the river. But there was warmth to his left, and he immediately went for it, plastering himself against it even though it hurt his cold skin.

"Are you sure?"

"Keep doing what you're doing, big guy, he needs all the body heat he can get."

That sounded a lot like Tony. Clint shuddered and pried his eyes open and found Tony kneeling by the side of the bed, still in the neoprene suit he wore under the armor and a look of concern in his eyes.

"You with us, Clint?" he asked.

Clint gave a full-body shudder and started shivering in earnest. He was pulled back against something rather firm, and realized from the arms around his waist and the legs over top of his that he wasn't alone in the bed. His shoulder flared and he ground his forehead into the pillow, looking at Tony from under hooded eyes.

"Tony?" His voice wasn't much more than a croak.

"Yeah, Clint. How you feelin'?"

"C-Cold." He tried to bring his legs up further toward his chest but whatever was behind him wasn't letting it happen.

That was more or less when he realized he was naked. And in bed with Thor.

Naturally, he wanted out.

Thor tightened his grip, slinging a leg over Barton's hips to keep him pinned. Clint's left arm was pinned under him, his right was useless – his shoulder hadn't been reduced yet – and he was shivering violently. Tony piled another blanket on him and Thor before crouching again to see Clint eye to eye.

"Clint, you need to relax." Tony waited until Barton's green eyes landed on his again. "Relax. You were hypothermic, we've called in a medic – she's not here yet – and then we'll take care of the shoulder and probably get you some more heated blankets and warm saline. Whatever they do for hypothermia victims. But you need to relax. Get warm. Thor's practically a furnace, right?"

Barton nodded shakily.

"Right. So just relax and let the heat seep in, okay?"

Whether he really wanted to or not, Clint found himself sinking backward into Thor's warmth, eyes drifting to half mast.

* * *

Thor opened his eyes about an hour later as the medic – Jan – was removing the thermometer from Clint's ear. Barton had somehow turned to be front to front with Thor, and wedged himself as tightly as possible against the warmth of the god's chest. He was still curled in as small a ball as possible, but he has his toes tucked Thor's calves as Thor had done his best to curl around the smaller man.

"His temp is almost there," Jan said with a smile, pushing back some of Clint's hair from his face. There was a pink tinge in his cheeks, and he'd probably gotten some water in his lungs after his impromptu dip in the East River which meant they'd have to be on the lookout for pneumonia. But he was sleeping, snuggled up into Thor like it was his job, "I'll be back in a little while for another reading."

Thor nodded, hugging Clint a little closer as she left. Which was okay, because Clint was attached to him like a limpet. Then again, he had been forewarned of this.

* * *

**+1 Coulson**

"Hey, babe? Open your eyes."

Clint did as requested and blinked a few times, Phil's face swimming into focus. He tugged the blankets a little higher.

"No, keep 'em open." Phil pushed Barton's sweaty hair off his forehead. "How about we go to bed?"

Clint blinked and started to struggle upright. One he was seated, he stared at Phil with fever-bright eyes while Coulson tucked the blankets around him more securely and levered him to his feet. They made their way down the hall – because Phil was going to be damned if he was going to be caught with his boyfriend on the couch like Natasha had caught Tony and Clint snuggling that one afternoon, not when they had a perfectly good bed – and into their bedroom. Phil more or less manhandled Clint under the covers on the proper side of the bed and climbed in the other once he'd stripped down to his boxers. It didn't take long for Clint to migrate across the mattress and attach himself to Phil's front, one arm squished between them, and the other around Phil's torso to lay wide open across Coulson's spine. Phil pushed a leg between Clint's and started his hand up and down Barton's back. He was over the worst of the pneumonia he'd gotten after his accidental swim in the East River, but he was still congested and had the mother of all fevers running through his system, despite the drugs.

Barton let out a contented, half-congested sigh and pressed a kiss to Phil's collarbone.

Which confirmed Phil's theory all along that Clint Barton was indeed a snuggler. Not that he minded, of course, when Clint was snuggled up into him.


End file.
